“You’ll be missed, friend,” Pete says, touching the coffin.
We move away so Georgia can say her goodbyes. A procession lines up behind her, and one by one, people pay their final respects. After the last visitor finishes, Pete closes the doors to the ambulance.
“Let’s get him home,” he announces loudly.
Bert hands him the keys to a freshly washed Atchafalaya Parish Sheriff’s Department unit that’s parked behind the ambulance. Pete opens the passenger door, and I slide into the seat. My sunglasses are back on when Pete starts the car.
He waits for the other drivers to get into their vehicles, then announces on the universal radio channel, “Lead the way, Bert.”
“Ten-four,” Bert replies.
Bert and Connie, in a car just like ours, lead the procession. Next, the ambulance drives out of the bay. Our car is right behind it. Lights flash, and sirens wail as the line of emergency vehicles slowly rolls down the highway. The roadway is soon lined with people watching the procession roll by. At first, I think it’s the commotion that has drawn most of them out of their homes and businesses. Suddenly, I realize it’s much more than that. I recognize the faces of many of our past patients and medical staff we used to interact with in the crowd. Did Jacob realize how appreciated he was? Some place their hands over their hearts as we pass, and I reach for Pete’s hand to give it a squeeze.
“They’re all here for Jacob,” I sob. Pete smiles and squeezes back.
“Of course they are. It’s just more proof of what a great medic and person he was,” Pete says. I nod, watching in awe as many of the vehicles we pass pull to the side of the roadway.
Most of the emergency vehicles break from the procession at the parish line, but Pete and Bert continue following the ambulance all the way to Shreveport. It takes us about four hours to get there, and once we pull into the funeral home parking lot, I instantly recognize Jacob’s parents. Jacob looks just like his father.
I greet them with an extended hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Templet, I’m Emily Boudreaux.”
My hand is batted away, and they each embrace me tightly. “He always spoke so highly of you, Emily,” Jacob’s father says into my ear. “He loved having you as his partner.”
“I loved having him as a partner, too. He was so incredibly special. I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.”
We finally break our little huddle, and Mrs. Templet looks at the ambulance and police cars.
“We knew that ESMR was scheduling a memorial service, but all of this is for our Jacob?” she asks, her voice quivering.
“He deserves so much more, Mrs. Templet.” I try turning away, but Mrs. Templet stops me.
“Don’t, dear. Don’t hide your tears. It’s not fair that you and Jacob had to go through such hell. He talked about you so much I feel like I know you. I can say with confidence that I know in my heart, you did everything you could to save Jacob.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Templet. I appreciate your kind words.” She moves back to stand by her husband. They hold hands while watching the medics, Bert, and Pete unload the casket from the ambulance.
“I’m so sorry for your loss. Will you please call me if you need anything?” I ask.
“We will. Thank you for coming all this way, Emily,” Mr. Templet says.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Emily, I guess you know that Jacob was a take-it-as-it-comes kind of guy. He didn’t let stuff get to him. He’d just barrel right on through the rough patches,” Mr. Templet says.
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
“I want you to take that from him, Emily. This is just a rough patch. Barrel through it, and know it’s okay to be happy. Jacob wouldn’t want any of us sitting around crying over him,” he says.
“I’m so glad I got to meet you both.”
“We are, too. Have a safe trip back to Green Bayou.”
After a round of hugs, I wave goodbye to them as we pull out of the parking lot.
We need a serious tension breaker, so we find a Mexican restaurant to eat at before heading home. None of us have eaten anything, so we are starving by the time we finish up at the funeral home.
Our server brings chips and salsa to our table, and we devour them. Connie and I order margaritas, but the guys stick to water since they are still in uniform. The festive music playing in the background and the bright colors that adorn the walls make me feel better.
“Jacob’s mother and father are so nice,” Connie remarks.
“It’s easy to see where Jacob got his charm,” I reply. She nods.
The meal is pretty solemn until a chorus of singing waiters and waitresses, accompanied by a mariachi band, come to the table to offer Bert a song. A busty waitress places a huge sombrero saying Feliz Cumpleaños onto his head and kisses his cheek.
“It’s not my birthday? Wait! Who did this?” Bert asks. We look at each other and shrug. The manager runs over to our table.
“I’m so sorry!” he yells over the music as he shoos away his employees. “Table 14! Not Table 4! Go! Now!” He lowers the volume of his voice. “I hope this hasn’t ruined your evening. I’ll have fresh margaritas out for you ladies right away. Gentlemen, is there anything I can get you?”
“That’s okay. We’re fine. No need for that,” Connie says.
“Nonsense! Ramon! Two margaritas, top shelf, extra shots, now!” he yells to the man behind the bar. After I suck down the last of my drink, I look at Connie.
“If there was a way for Jacob to arrange it, I’d swear that little scene from earlier was one of his pranks,” I admit.
“He did love doing stuff like that,” Bert agrees.
“I remember the look on your face when Jacob walked into Chez Lafitte’s with Roberta. It was priceless!” Pete shows Bert and Connie his version of my look, and they laugh hysterically.
“Shame on you for putting him up to it!” I jokingly scold Pete. He rubs my back and smiles.
“He’d have found some other way to get you, Emily,” Pete says.
“You’re right. He would’ve,” I concede.
We share more Jacob stories, and Connie and I have a few more margaritas, so we are beyond tipsy by the time we leave the restaurant. I lean heavily on Pete until I get into the car.
We have a four hour drive ahead of us, so I stretch out the best I can on the bench seat and situate my head on Pete’s lap. He strokes my hair as he drives, plus it’s dark out. So that, along with the alcohol, makes my eyes feel weighted and heavy. I stare at the lights on the gauges until they begin to blur, and somewhere along the way, I fall asleep. I don’t wake up until we stop in Lafayette for fuel.
The bright lights of the gas station where Pete has stopped wake me. I lift my head from Pete’s lap, and I’m mortified to find I’ve drooled on his leg. He just laughs and asks if I want anything from inside the store.
“I’ll come in with you so I can stretch my legs,” I answer. “Bert and Connie stopped, too? Good.”
Still half asleep, I stumble when I reach the bathroom door and bang my forehead smack into it. It sounds horrific, but it doesn’t hurt. I cup my hand over the spot anyway.
“Damn, girl! Are you okay?” Connie asks, trying to peek at my forehead.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say, looking into the mirror.
My forehead is fine, but my face is incredibly pale. There are red marks from resting on Pete’s legs imprinted into one cheek. My hair is puffed in all different directions, and my makeup is smudged all around my eyes, which are an evil shade of red thanks to the nap and the alcohol.
“Child, I look like a hooker having a bad night,” Connie says, primping in the mirror. “Have you been sleeping the whole way from Shreveport! You better hope that stuff isn’t permanent because you’re looking a lot like a washed up hooker right now, too.”
I burst into hysterical laughter then look in the mirror, desperately trying to tame my wild hair. It’s a no-go. The more I try to slick it down, the
more it stands up. I can’t stop laughing, and Connie and I howl as the stress and pent up emotions are finally released.
“I haven’t laughed like that in weeks,” I announce to Connie while holding my stomach. “It feels good to laugh again,” I say in between gasps. I try to get serious. “Thank you, Connie. For everything.” She hugs me tightly then quickly pulls away.
“I gotta pee!” She squirms around doing a little jig, and I start laughing again.
“Stop that!” she scolds. “You’re gonna make me pee on myself if you keep that up!” she exclaims while hobbling to an open stall.
I compose myself long enough to enter the stall next to hers. When we leave, we find the guys waiting in the store for us.
“What in the hell were you two cackling about?” Bert asks, looking to Connie for answers. “The whole store could hear you.”
“Nothing,” she says. “Woman stuff. I’ll tell you if you really want to know.”
Bert shakes his head. “Woman stuff? Nope, I’ll pass.” My laughter comes back full force when Connie turns away to get a drink from the refrigerated case, and I notice her dress is tucked into her pantyhose.
“Nice thong!” I say in between gasps for air, referring to the blue polka-dotted one she has on display. Pulling her dress free, Connie and I laugh so hard we hold onto one another for support. People stare.
“They…probably…think we…are insane…prisoners,” I say in between laughs.
“It’s okay. He might handcuff me, but it’s not to take me jail!” Connie starts again with a fresh bout of hysterics.
Bert is beet red. “Come on you two. Let’s get y’all home.”
“Handcuffs, Bert?” I say, my brows arched high in the air. “I never would’ve pegged you for that kind of guy.”
“Wait until I tell you about…” Connie’s confession is cut off when Bert clamps his hand around her mouth.
“We’ll just meet you outside,” a now purple Bert says as he lifts Connie in his arms to bring her outside. She’s still mumbling behind his hand.
I finally compose myself long enough to tell Pete I want a diet drink, and he promises to bring it out to me. I wave goodbye to Connie and Bert as they pull out of the parking lot, then get back into the car. Pete opens the driver’s door, hands me my drink, and puts his into the drink holder. He starts the car but doesn’t move it. Instead, he turns to look at me.
“I haven’t heard you laugh like that in quite a while. I was glad to hear it. I’m tired of seeing you in pain,” he says. “I’m going to do my best to keep you from ever hurting like that again, and that’s a promise,” he says softly. I lean over to give him a kiss.
“I love you,” he says. “Now, let’s go home.”
“I think I’d rather find a deserted cane field we could pull into for a little while,” I tease while nuzzling his neck. He smiles as he steers the car back onto the highway.
“I might know where to find one of those,” he answers with a grin.
It’s early March, and Mom and Dad visit for Mardi Gras. They rent a car for the visit, so I don’t have to pick them up from the airport this time. I rock back and forth on the front porch swing, anxiously awaiting their arrival. As soon as the long blue car pulls into the drive, I jump from the front steps into my dad’s arms. After giving him a hug and a kiss, I run to my mom’s side to repeat the process. She wastes no time making a fuss over my faint scars.
“Mom, I’m fine. Nothing hurts.”
“Oh, Emily, I know you. You wouldn’t tell me if you were in pain. She wouldn’t, would she, Don? Tell her to tell me the truth.”
“Emily, answer your mother truthfully, please,” Dad says, even though he’s clearly more interested in unloading the luggage.
“I’m not hiding anything from you. I promise. I’m fine,” I say.
“Emily!” Mom stops fussing and stares me down.
“Mom!” I answer back sarcastically.
“You get your obstinacy from your father’s side. Don, she gets it from you, doesn’t she? Tell her she gets it from you.”
“Emily, you get it from me,” Dad says. “You have the key to the guesthouse on you by any chance, Doodlebug?”
Luckily, that’s the end of that conversation. I hand Dad the key, and Mom and I walk into the main house. I grab a pitcher of iced tea, and we go sit on the back porch. There’s little talk of the incident and lots of excitement about attending the upcoming parades.
Connie agrees to meet us at Greenleaf so we can all ride together. I load an ice chest with beers and sodas and pack some folding lawn chairs into Pete’s quad cab pickup truck. The sun is shining brightly, so I wear my shorts with a pink, fitted t-shirt and sandals. I put on my sunglasses, and after making sure my parents are comfortable in the backseat, follow Connie’s directions to the viewing area.
I park the truck in an empty lot belonging to one of Connie’s relatives, then climb into the bed of the truck to open the folding chairs. I turn them to face the street, help my parents into them, and then Connie and I sit on the tailgate. I open the ice chest, grabbing beers for Dad and me and waters for Mom and Connie.
People around us have their music blaring, so we’re blasted with a variety of tunes ranging from swamp pop to hard rock. The smell of bar-b-que drifts towards us, and my stomach growls.
Mom and Connie hit it off so well that I can’t get a word in edgewise. At one point, my dad catches my attention to wink at me. I smile back at him. By the time Dad and I are three beers in, we hear the parade making its way down to us. The wail of sirens announces the beginning of the motorcade.
I’m extra anxious to see this one because Pete is leading the parade. It seems to take forever, but I finally spot the familiar white car with its blue light bar and brown decals. When I know he’s close enough to spot me, I wave in his direction to flag him down. He waves back to signal he’s seen me. When he pulls even with the back of the pickup, he looks back and decides he’s far enough ahead of the procession to jump out of his car.
He jogs over to us, shakes my dad’s hand, kisses my mom on the cheek, and hugs Connie. He pulls a beautiful long string of plastic beads out of his pocket and places it around my neck.
“I gave you your first set of Mardi Gras beads.” He smiles and whispers in my ear, “You lived in New Orleans. You know what you’re supposed to show me to get the good ones.”
I laugh knowing that he’s referring to the women who expose their breasts along the parade route to get the long strands that are tossed from the floats.
“What? Right here, right now? Cause I’ll do it,” I tease.
“Then I’d have to take you to jail for indecent exposure.”
“I bet I could work out a deal with you to keep me out of trouble.”
He shifts around uncomfortably. “Why are you doing this to me? Now that’s all I’m going to think about the entire freaking parade,” he says with a grin. “Kiss me.”
“I don’t think so, mister,” I say, pushing him away. Grabbing his shirt, I pull him back to me and whisper in his ear, “I’m going to save it for tonight when I’m wearing nothing but these beads.” I lightly flick his ear lobe.
“Hot damn! I gotta get back in the car,” Pete announces loudly.
He waves as he puts the car into gear and continues the slow crawl down the street. Connie asks what all the whispers were about, so I fill her in.
“Where’s Bert? I want some beads, too,” Connie says, looking down the parade route. “Shit, he’s at the beginning of the route doing crowd control. Oh, well.”
I hand out another round of drinks, and we are steadily pelted with beads, candy, and trinkets. Most land in the bed of Pete’s truck, but some of them are handed directly to us by the people on the floats. Connie nabs a stuffed alligator from the doctor she works for, and my mom gets a set of beautiful ceramic beads from one of her old friends.
I recognize the ESMR unit coming up in the procession, and when Carter sees me, he stops the ambulance. H
e waves me over and passes a rose through the window. I run up to him to accept the dark, red flower, and then poke my head inside to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“We sure do miss you, Emily. How are you?”
“I’m good, Carter. I miss you guys, too. I should be back within the next couple of weeks.”
“Good, because I don’t know where ESMR’s been finding the replacements they’ve been sending.”
“That bad?”
“It’s not good. I’m gonna leave it at that. Of course, the replacements have mighty big shoes to fill.” He winks at me.
“Thanks, Carter.”
The next thing I know, I’m being pushed out of the way by a slew of young women.
“She got a rose! I saw it! I want a rose!” one yells.
“I want one, too!” another exclaims.
“Give me a rose, paramedic! I’ll let you do CPR on me!” a third woman volunteers.
“I’m outta here, Carter! Good luck!” I shout to him.
“Look, Emily!” Connie says, laughing loudly when I make it back to the truck.
The ambulance is surrounded by women, most of them drunk. The ambulance rocks back and forth as the women start chanting, “We want a rose!” Connie laughs at the chaos that encircles the guys.
“Somebody’s gonna go to jail,” I say.
“Nah,” Connie counters. “Not over a rose.”
“Girl, I’ve seen people beat the crap out of each other over a plastic kazoo. Five dollars says somebody’s going to jail.”
“You’re on,” Connie says.
Deputies fly by on ATVs to break up the crowd. Most of the women walk away from the ambulance as soon as they noticed the cops, but one woman seems oblivious to it all. She steadily pounds on the window. A deputy taps her shoulder.
“I want my damned rose!” She swings around to slug him and turns pale when she realizes she tried to hit a deputy. She takes off running, and the deputy follows.
“That one doesn’t count,” Connie says. “We don’t know if he caught her or not. I don’t see them anymore.”
“It’s not over yet.” I point back to the ambulance.
Going Home (The Green Bayou Novels Book 1) Page 21